To see a life back to front, as everyone begins to do in middle age, is to strip it of its mystery and wrap it inevitability, drama’s enemy. Or so it seems to me, Louis Charles Lynch. The man I’ve become, the life I’ve lived, what are these but dominoes that fall not as I would have them but simply as they must?
A man named Lucy reaches a crossroads in his journey through life. At the age of sixty, after four decades of a relatively happy marriage, with a reasonably successful business operating small grocery stores, he receives an invitation to visit Venice, residence of his childhood friend Bobby Marconi.
Unlike Marconi, who left Thomaston after highschool, changed his name and became a world renowned modern painter as Robert Noonan, Louis Charles Lynch has never left the hometown, preferring to take over the struggling family business and play it safe in life. Now, as he looks back on a long life, Lucy must decide if it is too late to take chances and be impulsive or if he will retract once more inside his protective shell, like a threatened turtle. So he starts to write his memoirs, the history of Thomaston and the history of the people who live there, as he witnessed it.
Thomaston, New York, is a place you’ve never heard of, unless you’re a history buff, an art lover or a cancer researcher.
To me, reading about Thomaston is a lot like reading about my hometown, just like reading about the distressed families living there is a lot like revisiting the street I grew up on. For historians, Thomaston is the place of an infamous massacre during the early Indian Wars. [Ploiesti is first mentioned in the 1600s as a military camp for King Michael the Brave, on his campaign to unite the three territories inhabited by Romanians and split between the Hungarian, Turkish and Russian Empires]. To art lovers, Thomaston is the birth place of the renowned painter Robert Noonan. [We boast of a playwright, I L Caragiale, and a poet, Nichita Stanescu] . For the medical profession, Thomaston is a breeding ground of terminal illness, caused by the local tanneries and dye factories. [Ploiesti was once home to eleven refineries plus several chemical plants].
The true link between fiction and reality is in the setting that has become a sort of Russo trademark: the small town that was once prosperous, but becomes impoverished when the main industries move some place else. The blue-collar families left behind are struggling to make ends meet, and the economical struggle is reflected in the personal dramas between generations.
My parents had always argued about money, since no matter how hard they worked we came up short at the end of the month. My father wasn’t a spendthrift, but saving for a rainy day wasn’t in his nature. To his way of thinking, the sun was shining most of the time. My mother had inherited from her parents the exact opposite view. To her, a sunny day was a rarity. Tomorrow it would rain, and the only question was how hard.
The sense of familiarity with the setting and with the characters goes for me beyond the immediate social parallels. Somehow, Richard Russo knows how to strike a chord, either with the childhood recollections or with the struggle to remain an optimist in a world full of hard rains. I was never bullied in childhood and called mean names the way Lucy was, but it was easy to see myself in the boy who took refuge in books [mostly easy, adventure reads] instead of facing up to reality.
That summer I also became a denizen of the Thomaston Free Library. Always a reader, I now borrowed six books every Saturday morning – the maximum allowable. At night I’d read until my mother made me turn out the light, then wake up early and read until it was time to bathe and eat breakfast and go to school.
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There is no such thing as a lesser Richard Russo novel, at least not to us fans of the author. I might admit, under pressure, that he recycles heavily on setting, characterization and plot, but like a master craftsman who casts the same mould for a vase or a jewel over and over again, until he gets it to perfection, or as close to it as his art permits. I might even add that the present story is slightly too long, a slow burner that depends heavily on how much the reader gets invested in the fate of the characters. But it was nevertheless an immersive experience, beautifully written and rich in nuance and emotional impact.
The Marconis, the Lynches, the Beverlys and the Bergs. Not one of these families would emerge unscathed from the collision. Only one would survive intact.
Bridge of Sighs is a famous Venice landmark, one that probably Richard Noonan passes by regularly in his walks through town. Like the first quote I used, the title of the novel implies some sort of inevitability of Fate, of children doomed to repeat the mistakes of their parents and of circumstances trumping good intentions.
Sarah and Noonan were veteran observers of marital dysfunction, and Lucy’s parents had struggled mightily for a long time to keep Ikey’s afloat. But to Nan economic uncertainty and parental discord were brand-new.
You can try to deny the facts, like the easy-going Big Lou Lynch, who was liked by everybody but considered a bit of a simpleton. Or you can hide behind the walls of a mansion in the rich part of town, like Nan Beverly. Or you can try to do your best with the cards that you were dealt, like Sarah Berg. Or you can run away, like Bobby Marconi, to be forever hunted by ghosts from your past, ghosts that you try to exorcise through your art.
“Why paint something no one will ever buy, that’s what I’d like to know. It’s lunatic. You should stop painting this. I mean it. In fact, I forbid you to continue. Let’s burn it right now, shall we?”
Where do Louis Charles Lynch and Sarah Berg fit in this struggling Thomaston? One is an optimist like his cherished father, the other a pragmatist like her mother, yet together they seemed to have built something durable. Or had they?
Maybe everyone was like that. Maybe lies were necessary to survival. [...]
“He may already know,” my wife says, taking me by surprise. “People know things and pretend not to.”Am I mistaken, or is she speaking not only of our son and me but also of herself?
Richard Russo looks at the equation from multiple perspectives, taking us all the way back to the earliest childhood memories, most of them of the traumatic variety. I found the attention to detail and the different takes on the same event from different actors to be very rewarding, in particular the school years for Lucy, Bobby and Sarah who will later form a variant of the eternal love triangle to add more drama to their personal lives.
What makes this story special among other similar stories from the same author is I believe the long-term wounds left by school bullying and by home abuse, with a vicious dose of racism thrown in [Gabriel]. Dysfunctional families are another staple of Russo, but I thought this novel was a lot better at the portrait of women in a setting that usually focuses on men. The other original angle is the expat artist perspective of Noonan, more cosmopolite and more subversive, aggressively intelligent than the resigned, introverted perspective of Lucy. Of interest to the art lover might also be the mention that Carravaggio’s ‘David with the Head of Goliath’ is Noonan’s favourite painting. It made me read up more on the Italian Master. Finally, I already mentioned Lucy’s love of books, but some of my favourite pages describe his growth from an escapist reader to an analytical one, under the dubious but brilliant tutelage of Sarah’s father, a teacher at the local highschool.
“Ahab’s speech on the quarterdeck. You were supposed to have read it for today.”
Religion doesn’t play a major part in the novel, unless you count a passage that once again seems addressed directly to me, and echoes my own thoughts on how to approach this thorny subject.
Her family was Jewish, she said. They didn’t practice the religion but instead something her father called humanism, which was more of a belief system. They didn’t go to church, just put their faith in what her dad called the fundamental nobility of man. They ate pork chops like we did, Sarah gave me to understand, and also celebrated Christmas, at least as a season of fellowship, even if they didn’t, as humanists, subscribe to the notion of Jesus being God or anything like that. That he was good was full and sufficient. People who believed that good wasn’t good enough, that Jesus had to be God, were the ones who gave us the Crusades and the Spanish Inquisition and the Holocaust.
Coexist, as that car decal says, and we’ll have fewer wars and pogroms.
This is a very long and tumultuous story, with plenty of interesting characters, so it’s hard to resume it to a single line without leaving much of the exciting things out, but I do have a final quote to conclude on the life story of Louis Charles Lynch:
When someone knows your deepest self and still loves you, are you not a lucky man?
Cue the Emerson, Lake & Palmer song for the end credits.